Against All Enemies

Turncoat sicario Dante Corrales was going to be placed in the witness protection program as he continued to name names and help tear apart the cartel. His intel regarding the cartel’s connections in Afghanistan and Pakistan was, however, dated, with the leads he’d given them on Rahmani’s whereabouts yesterday’s news, according to Moore’s colleagues operating in the region. Moore had already sent a text message to Wazir to see if he’d learned anything more about the Hand of Fatima pendant and the group of Taliban that Moore so firmly believed had entered the United States. The Agency still had no leads on Gallagher’s whereabouts (he’d obviously had his shoulder beacon surgically removed), although he had been identified as the man who’d hired the kid to paint the police cars. As a field agent, Gallagher had been trained to find people who didn’t want to be found and was an expert at dropping off the grid himself. Over the years, he’d studied all the different methods people used to conceal themselves — and he’d learned which ones had worked and which had not. Finding him would cost money, time, assets, and, Moore contended, a feverish obsession.

Sometime later, Moore fell asleep and was awakened by the single attendant who asked that he sit up and fasten his seat belt.

San Diego, California

0405 Local Time

Once on the ground, Sonia said she was catching another flight back to Langley, where she’d be debriefed by her people.

“You did a great job,” Moore told her. “I mean it.”

She smiled tightly. “Thank you.”

Moore drove Towers over to Sharp Memorial Hospital, a level 1 trauma center. When the nurses learned that Towers was a law enforcement officer, they treated him like royalty, and he was seen by a doctor within ten minutes. They told Moore their timing was fortunate. In a few hours, all of the rush-hour car accident victims would begin pouring in — just another day at a trauma center in a big city.

While seated in the waiting room, Moore read an e-mail from Slater’s assistant, who said they were hoping to schedule a video conference later in the day. Moore had already spoken at length with his bosses during the plane ride back.

As he was about to doze off yet again, a gunshot echoed as though through mountains. Moore cursed and shuddered awake. That wasn’t a gunshot, but his phone was vibrating: a call from Wazir. Moore rose and stepped out of the waiting room and into the hallway. “How are you, my friend?”

“I know it is early there, but I had to call. I thought I would leave you a message.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Some of the informants your men recruited have brought trouble. Another drone launched missiles yesterday, killing one of my best sources of information. You need to stop this.”

“I’ll make a call as soon as we’re finished.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t help me. Your agency is directing the strikes on the people I need most.”

“Wazir, I understand that.”

“Good.”

“Do you have anything for me?”

“Bad news. A group of seventeen men entered the United States through a tunnel between Mexicali and Calexico, just as you feared. Samad, the man who is Rahmani’s fist, is with them, along with two of his lieutenants, Talwar and Niazi. Samad has been known to wear the Hand of Fatima.”

Moore balled his hand into a fist and held back the curses. “I need everything you can get on those men, all seventeen of them. And I need to know where Samad and Rahmani are …right now.”

“I’m already working on that. Rahmani is here, but he keeps moving, and as I said, it’s getting very dangerous for me. Stop the drone attacks. Tell your people to back off so I can work for you.”

“I will.”

Moore immediately called Slater, who was en route to his office. Moore conveyed what Wazir had said and added, “I need you to stop the drone attacks. Let ’em run recon, but no bombing. Not now.”

“I need actionable intel.”

“You won’t get it if you kill my sources. I just got confirmation. Samad’s already here. He’s got a team. Gallagher helped him.”

“I’ll get with DHS and see if they’re willing to step up some operations and raise the terror alert status.”

Specific government activities related to specific threat levels were not fully revealed to the public, and often the Agency was not made aware of every other department’s activities (no surprise there), given that deep-cover operations like Sonia’s were not disclosed to the rest of the Agency itself. Certain measures had already been challenged in court as being illegal, and the courts had yet to rule on many of those issues, even as the current system suffered accusations of being politically manipulated (threat levels being raised before elections, et cetera).

Moore thanked Slater, then added, “It’s imperative now that we hold fire, all right? My guy Wazir is a good man, the best guy I’ve got. He’ll help us find these bastards. Just hold fire.”

Slater hesitated at first, then said, “Keep me informed on how Towers is doing. I’ve got a full plate today, but I’ll talk to you later.”

7-Eleven Convenience Store

Near San Diego International Airport

Kashif Aslam, a forty-one-year-old Pakistani immigrant, dreamed of one day owning his own 7-Eleven, but for now he managed the store on Reynard Way, barely a mile from the airport. By popular demand from a small group of Pakistanis living in the immediate area, Aslam started selling pakoras, a Pakistani finger-food snack consisting of potato or onion or cauliflower deep-fried in a chickpea batter. Each morning his wife would get up early to make the batter, alternating between the potato, onion, and cauliflower, and Aslam would bring the pakoras to work and complete the fritters in the store’s deep fryer. The snacks were such a success that the owner began paying Aslam for all the supplies and for his wife’s labor.

After six years of managing the same location, Aslam was very familiar with all of his local customers, especially his fellow Pakistanis. Just before noon, three strangers in their early twenties had come in and rejoiced over the fritters. They were all countrymen, who had spoken in Urdu and had cleaned him out of every last pakora. Of course they had roused his curiosity. Aslam had asked them how they’d heard about him and the snacks, and they said that they had a friend who worked at the airport, but they had, oddly enough, been unable to give him a name, saying it was another friend who’d made contact. That could very well be true, but there was something troublesome about these men, their nervous reaction when he’d asked, their unwillingness to discuss how long they’d been in the country and exactly where they were from in Pakistan. Aslam decided to eavesdrop on their conversation outside the store, where they’d stood, eating heartily. He pretended to be taking out the trash, walking around the back toward the big Dumpster, when he’d heard one of them talking about flight numbers and flight patterns.

Aslam was a true believer in America; the country had been very good to him, his wife, and their six daughters. He did not want any trouble, and, more important, he did not want anything to interfere with his new life and promising future.

While he couldn’t prove anything, Aslam thought the men might be criminals — smugglers perhaps — or in the country illegally, and he did not want the authorities to associate him or the store in any way with them. He did not want them coming back. They were driving a dark red Nissan compact car, and Aslam had been careful to record their tag number. After they’d left, he’d called the police and reported the incident to one of two officers who had come to take his statement. Then, thirty minutes later, a man who identified himself as Peter Zarick, an FBI agent, arrived to interview him. He said they would follow up on the tag number and assured him that he would not be associated with them in any way.

“What happens now?” he asked the man before he left.

“My boss will pass this information on to all the other agencies.”

“That’s very good,” said Aslam. “Because I don’t want any trouble for anyone.”

FBI Agent Peter Zarick got in his car and drove away from the 7-Eleven. When he got back to the field office, he’d turn in his 302 report to Meyers, the special agent in charge, who would fax it to Virginia, to the National Counterterrorism Center. The NCTC hosted three daily secure video teleconferences (SVTCs) and maintained